


ask me for the stars, they'll be yours

by the_nerd_youre_looking_for



Series: asking for the stars [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Author Projecting onto Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley is depressed and it's not a good time, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Im just sad u know sometimes it be like that, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Suicidal Thoughts, and also projecting shit onto crowley lets gooooo, but u know what he has a bf who loves him and will help him thru things, dealing with mental illness, he is just not having a good time, this is me craving someone to be there for me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-10-05
Packaged: 2020-10-18 02:55:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20631926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_nerd_youre_looking_for/pseuds/the_nerd_youre_looking_for
Summary: Crowley honestly did not mean to sleep through an entire century. The plan was to take a quick nap, maybe about a month, to let things cool down between Aziraphale and him so he could properly explain why he needed holy water. However, he woke up a year or so later, looked at the late afternoon sun peeking through the window, saw the thin layer of dust covering everything, thought about actually confronting Aziraphale, and decided that rejoining the living was more effort than it was worth. So he got up to take a piss and then went right back to bed.Perhaps it was just as well. Crowley couldn't say honestly that he never once considered using holy water on himself.





	ask me for the stars, they'll be yours

**Author's Note:**

> Me, projecting and going full ex catholic thru crowley's pov

Crowley honestly did not mean to sleep through an entire century. The plan was to take a quick nap, maybe about a month, to let things cool down between Aziraphale and him so he could properly explain why he needed holy water. However, he woke up a year or so later, looked at the late afternoon sun peeking through the window, saw the thin layer of dust covering everything, thought about actually confronting Aziraphale, and decided that rejoining the living was more effort than it was worth. So he got up to take a piss and then went right back to bed.

Perhaps it was just as well. Crowley couldn't say honestly that he never once considered using holy water on himself.

Of course, to Aziraphale, he said he didn't, just for defending himself if it came to it. And that was a big part of wanting the holy water! What he and Aziraphale had going on was risky, and if anyone from either of their head offices found out, they would be toast. Probably literally. Having something to defend himself with would be a big plus and would make him feel a lot safer. But of course, Aziraphale had jumped to the worst possible conclusion. He immediately assumed it was for suicide and berated Crowley for even asking him to get something that dangerous. As if Aziraphale's holy light could penetrate the darkest reaches of his mind, where he wondered if such a long rest as death might be nice, peaceful even. Certainly a break from the life he's been living, bearing witness to one human tragedy after another after another after another. Maybe that was why he'd slept so long, to get just a taste of it. Aziraphale loved living, he loved seeing what the humans came up with next, whether it be foods or books or dances or fashion, even if he won't follow along. Crowley almost dreads the slow drag of time, dreads reading the newspaper only to find out something else horrible had happened and wondering if it would be pinned on him again. It's disgusting how some demons, and even Aziraphale occasionally, will believe him wicked enough to corrupt the human minds to slaughter and destruction. 

That night, in 1967, he sat in his sitting room for that whole night, staring at the tartan thermos in front of him. Crowley had been half tempted to dump the contents out over himself, to get a break from living. Of course, the break would never end, which caused some hesitation. Sleeping for a century was another thing entirely, because he could go as long as he needed without living, with the promise that he would be able to go back to it eventually. Getting himself discorporated, which became something of a pastime, wouldn't even do much damage to himself. He'd end up back in Hell and would have to explain just how the old body got killed. Jumping off bridges, drowning, overdoses, walking into traffic, hanging, alcohol poisoning, bullet to the face. At some point, he'd have to stop or they'd never give him a new body again. Something about it felt so maddeningly human. Holy water would end him. It would end the few things he actually enjoyed about living. He'd hugged the thermos close to his chest, feeling the sting of divine power even through the plastic, welcoming the pain. It hurt deep down, digging into his essence, so unlike the blades he would use sometimes. Eventually, as the sun rose, he decided to lock it away. He never stopped thinking about it. 

It was almost a thrill, to take it out from the safe and just look at it. Twice, he took the lid off and stared. Looking down into the darkness of it made his eyes sting and his teeth itch. Once, he kept pushing at it, almost daring it to spill over. It didn't. Holy water looked exactly like normal water, but Crowley could feel the difference, feel the raw power, and it was nearly addictive to be around. 

~*~

Crowley would say his obsession with unliving started way back in the old days. Noah and his blessed ark, to pinpoint a date. By then, he'd grown a little fond of Aziraphale, the funny angel who'd given his sword away to humanity. That was a guy he could get along with, or so he thought. Turns out, the angel wanted nothing more than to follow company policy and let God murder the entire human race. It was like a brick to the face when he found out. When the rains started, he began a frantic attempt to save as many children as he could, dragging them crying and screaming into the great boat as the floods rose. Mothers handed him their babies and pushed their young ones to him, calling him a savior, an angel. In the end, he couldn't save them all. He knew he wouldn't be able to, but the knowledge that far too many children had only the cold seas as their early graves, while that high-and-mighty Noah and his family floated above the wreckage of the world. Crowley never stayed in a room with windows, lest he see someone he failed to save. Aziraphale had found him some time later, nicking a bit of the food supply to bring to his little band of kids in the lower stables. The angel turned a blind eye to it and never brought the incident up again. Aziraphale wasn't there that first week, when he'd sobbed his heart out for the human race, for the people he couldn't save, for the young ones who would grow up without parents, with death and grief and trauma as their first memories, and for the failure of a demon he was that he couldn't just let everyone die like he should've, and for fear that the Almighty could get a bit cranky and pull this sort of stunt again, promises and rainbows be damned. 

After the flood waters receded, Crowley built a little hut out of mud and clay and refused to leave for years. All he knew was if that funny little angel ever found him again, he'd act like nothing had happened and Crowley didn't have it in him to pretend. And he wondered what it would've been like, to run out of air, to frantically try to make his way to the surface, to have his lungs fill up with water. He found out nearly a week later, and Hell was rather upset he'd gone out and ruined a perfectly good body like that. He wondered if rains sent by God would've done permanent damage.

If he had to hazard a guess at another date, he'd point out that Egypt's ten plagues were incredibly nasty. They were cowardly and the work of an absolute madman and it was one of those times Crowley was glad he'd Fallen, just so he wouldn't be associated with shit like this. He couldn't blame the Jewish people for wanting to be free, he knew they had nothing to do with it. It was all God and Her disregard for human life. She meant to convince Pharaoh, sure, but every single plague almost solely effected the common people. The Nile turning to blood meant that people had no fresh water to drink, the frogs were just irritating and the lice and flies could've done some sort of damage. All the animals died leaving the people with little to eat, there was a nasty case of boils, lots of hail which was very uncommon in the region, locusts ate the remaining crops, and the sun wouldn't come up for a good while. And those were the first nine. Crowley tried to help people, turning blood into freshwater and hoarding bundles of wheat and grains from the pests. This is still very evil, he would tell himself, since God wants these people to suffer. Crowley wasn't sure at the time how far God was willing to go with these things, since they seemed to be getting less severe each time. Frogs, seriously? 

And then the tenth. An order for the killing of all firstborn sons in the land, no matter how young or good or innocent they were. Crowley had hidden in a dark corner, wrapped in his wings, and tried not to listen to the crying and screaming. He wanted desperately to help, to snatch up children and run like he had on the ark, but he knew he'd be no match against angels. They would just smite him or something and continue on the murder path. That's what it was, pure and simple. Murder. The little ones had done nothing wrong, they didn't even understand what was happening, and they were being slaughtered like their life meant nothing. All he could do was sit there, cover his ears, and weep silently. When God had Her fair share of needless bloodshed, the angels left and he felt the divine power receding like a weight on his shoulders being lifted. He stayed there in his corner, in his cocoon, unwilling to go out into the streets and see the remnants of that night.

Moses lead his people out of Egypt, free at last, and he could hear their joyous crying from where he was. Crowley was happy for them, he really was, he only wished it wouldn't have come at such a cost to innocent people. God could've tortured Pharaoh all She liked and he wouldn't have given a shit. After the Jewish people had left Egypt, Crowley went down for a ten-year nap. He woke up to an old dust-covered note from one funny little angel, about how he'd heard about the little miracles he'd been doing, calling him _nice _of all things. They met up at a little inn and both of them tactfully did not mention Egypt. 

Oh, and the thing about humanity was that they never learned. Another plague, another war, another massacre, over and over, like an endless cycle. There'll be a period of peace and beauty and then they get right back into the murder. Crowley tries to avoid it, mostly. He's learned he can't help people, or at least he wasn't made to. Maybe once, but not now. Occasionally he thought upon that, that he might've failed to help the humans because of his inherent self, because he was a demon and demons are meant to bask in bloodshed, not flee from it. That thought also raised the thought that Aziraphale, who quickly became a very good friend of his despite the angel's protesting, could've helped, because of his inherent self, that of an angel. But he didn't. Thinking like that just made him feel worse, and he chased them away easily, since plenty of angels are absolute shits. And Aziraphale did help where he could, little miracles here and there. Still it all just felt like too much sometimes, the effort of living and witnessing. These times were when he was reckless with his body, doing stupid and dangerous things to injure or kill it. He knew he'd be fine, but it was the thrill of it that made him go do it over and over. It was the barest taste of death, of catching a break, that lead him like a horse to water. Of course Aziraphale didn't know, why should he? Wasn't any of his business, even when it grew to be exactly his business, and he'd just worry. Crowley was absolutely fine, even though sometimes he went and slept for another decade because standing up was getting to be too much, or he'd go drink himself to death because he was completely fed up with the world as a whole and needed another break. Totally alright.

~*~

Crowley felt the electric zap of the contained holy water for the last time as he set the trap for Hastur and Ligur. For a crazy moment, he wanted to pour it all over himself. He hesitated putting it on top of the door, actually thinking it over. He was even mentally writing the note for Aziraphale to find when the moment ended. He had a responsibility to Aziraphale and to the rest of the world, and his pesky little depression wasn't going to fuck that up. 

When he entered the burning bookshop and couldn't sense the angel anywhere, he knelt among the flames and almost wished he'd gone through with it. The sting of the fire felt good and he was so close to just letting himself burn up, to giving up on the world. With more effort than he's ever used on living in his six thousand years, he stood up and exited the shop. 

~*~

After the world didn't end, Crowley felt absolutely spent. He'd just been on the world's worst deadline, had a pretty major fight with Aziraphale, lost him and got him back, stopped time, faced down Satan, and that's all in a few days. To say that Crowley was exhausted was a major understatement. He'd passed out immediately after he sat on the bus back to London, and probably would've gone down for a nap the second the trials were finished, but Aziraphale had wanted to go out to dinner and who was he to deny him? Even still, it had taken everything he'd gained back to sit up and speak instead of just lying down on the floor until his angel was finished. And after it all, the torture of forming words into sentences into meaning, of keeping himself focused on Aziraphale's words and not slipping off into haze of his mind, the angel insisted of torturing him more by inviting him to have a nightcap at the bookshop before he went back to his own flat. Of course, of course, the things he would do for Aziraphale. He'd defy Hell, stop time, save him over and over, and spend an hour more with him when all he wants to do is sleep. 

The bookshop doesn't smell of smoke, and Crowley expects it too. Even though he'd been in there earlier that morning, he could hardly believe it was back to normal. Everything was back in its proper place, organized by a system Aziraphale understands and Crowley half follows. He sat down on the couch, taking up all the space as usual, while he waited for Aziraphale to come back with the booze and two glasses. He felt as if he might never get up from the couch as the act of existing held too much weight. It was a good thing he didn't have any need to blink, or else he'd tire himself out with it. 

~*~

"I've been thinking," Crowley finally says, after the night had dragged on quite enough, "that I might go down for a bit of a sleep after this."

Aziraphale pauses mid-drink and just looks at him for a moment, one of those looks that drags everything into the open. "Oh. How long?" He asks

Crowley shrugs. "I hadn't planned. Few months, maybe?" He was aiming for years, but he wasn't sure if Aziraphale would be up for that. 

"Well, are you...what I mean is, are you sure it's a good idea?" Aziraphale stammers, setting his glass down and talking with his hands as usual. He seems anxious now, as if Crowley's thoughts have just been exposed and he doesn't really like what he sees.

"I've done it before." Crowley furrows his brows and finishes his wine. "What's the deal now?"

Aziraphale clasps his hands together and stares intensely at the ground as if he wanted to burn through it again with only his gaze this time. Something is on his mind, Crowley can tell, maybe an answer to his question. He isn't sure he actually wanted an answer, it was mostly just to prove a point. 

"It's just, well, over the years, I've...I've noticed things."

Crowley feels his unnecessary heart beat faster and he'd get rid of it if his body wasn't so damn used to it by now. "Noticed what, angel?" He responds, trying to keep the growing anxieties out of his voice. If Aziraphale knew about everything, that would be the end of it. The end of what, he wasn't sure, but something would end and it would be devastating. 

"You know, well. I notice a lot, after very...straining things for you, you tend to...well, disappear, for a lack of a better word..."

It was about everything. Since the Beginning, all of it had been a constant and all of it had been seemingly unknown to the angel, Crowley thought he'd done a good job at keeping it away from him, but that Aziraphale, smarter than he lets on, things don't just slip by him like that, he should've noticed. "Angel..." he tries to interrupt, but Aziraphale is on a roll.

"And I notice that you often discorporate your bodies, and I don't know if it's accidental or not but I _notice _when I stop sensing you around you know-"

"Aziraphale, it's nothing-"

"Well, and, this might be very private, but when...sometimes, when it's warmer and you wear shorter sleeves, I can see...I can see the scars, and-"

"Let's talk about something else."

"After the holy water thing, I started to look, and, well. I wanted to bring it up to you, dear, I _did_, even earlier, but you know how it was, the old times between us, how we didn't really trust each other-"

"Please?"

"I wanted to talk about it, but I couldn't, you know how it was, but I _tried _to do little things for you, see if it might help some, and it might not have, and all I know is when you get very upset about something, you disappear for a while and it's never good, and you can't go discorporate yourself now because what would Hell do to you? And, well, I certainly would miss you if you went down to sleep for a while, so all I'm saying is, perhaps very badly, is maybe we could just...talk about things?"

Crowley set his jaw and stared resolutely at the wall behind Aziraphale's head. "Well, what is there to talk about." He said dully. "Sounds like you've got it all worked out." And there wasn't anything to say, because he didn't want to say anything on the matter. Might be better to let Aziraphale psychoanalyze him while he took a nap than to try and dig up the words for his feelings that he let collect dust for thousands of years. Besides, he just didn't want to weigh Aziraphale down with everything going on. He'd already gone through enough in just this week, let alone everything in six thousand years. The last thing he needed was to know that his fucked up mental state was a weight on his angel's shoulders. It would just be even worse if Aziraphale felt like he had to go out of his way for him, to try and make him feel better. That wouldn't happen, and it isn't as if just being with Aziraphale was enough to make things seem better, sometimes. Not now. Now he wanted to go to his flat, yell at his plants a bit, and take a nap. 

"Maybe I have, but I'd like to hear your own thoughts on it." Aziraphale's voice cut through the fog of thoughts. "I don't want to make a bigger deal out of it than I need to. I mean...is this recent, or..." He trailed off, clearly expecting a response, and Crowley could never deny him something he wanted.

"Nah, since old Noah and his boat." He tried to sound casual, because it should be, because it's been going on for so long that it shouldn't be a bother anymore. "I mean, big flood killing the human population is enough to depress any old bastard, right?" Crowley chuckled lifelessly, only trying to inject the situation was some lightness.

Aziraphale didn't laugh with him, didn't even smile. He just looked at him like he was trying to solve a Crowley-shaped calculation in his head. "Does it bother you?" He asked. "I mean, I assume, because of all the..." He gestured awkwardly and made a 'you know' face. "But I want to hear from you."

At this point, Crowley decided enough was enough and flung himself off of the couch and propelled into the main shop. "Right, lovely evening, great talk, think I'll head out now, see you later." He said, doing just short of running to the door and speeding his way out of the immediate galaxy. Crowley was almost sure he'd made it when he felt Aziraphale's soft hand grab him by the wrist and stop him in his tracks.

"Crowley." He said sternly, in a tone that forced Crowley to turn and face him. "I just want to help, now that I'm able to." 

Crowley's throat tightened at the sad shine in Aziraphale's eyes and was glad he had his sunglasses on him still. There wasn't going back from this, even if he did leave. No matter the distance, all these words and feelings would hang damply between them. Might as well give him the truth, if he hadn't dug it out by now. "Look, I don't want to worry you." He choked out. "I'm me, I should be worrying about my mental shit, not you. It's very difficult to explain it, and really it's just a burden on your shoulders, so if we could both forget about this, that'd be lovely."

Aziraphale tutted and shook his head, a sad sort of smile making its way across his face. "My dear boy." He said softly, _aching _with love. "What makes you think I've not dealt with the exact same issues?"

And that just sent an icicle into Crowley's spine, because that is exactly the sort of thing he's supposed to _see_. Years around Aziraphale, he never thought. Maybe he was self-absorbed in his own issues, maybe he was selfish like that. Maybe it was the years spent so far apart from each other that he'd not seen any sort of pattern. Or maybe, the more logical reason, he just isn't as good as patterns as Aziraphale is. "How long for you?" He manages around the static in his head.

The angel shrugs, as if it isn't the most earth-shattering, devastating news Crowley could've received today. "Why, I'd say the same as you. You said it quite well when you said the drowning of the human population would depress any old bastard." He chuckled, and Crowley just_ stares_. 

"Why didn't you at least tell me?" And here Crowley can tell he's hypocritical, he never told Aziraphale either. But in his mind there is a very strict distinction between his problems and Aziraphale's problems and the distinction is this: Aziraphale's are far more important than his. "Or why didn't I notice?"

Aziraphale moves his gentle grip from Crowley's wrist to his hand and sighs a little. "I don't know." He admits. "I suppose for the same reason you never told me. I'd never acted out as drastically as you have, but I'm afraid it wasn't quite out of a lack of desire. I more worried about Head Office's reaction to it, you know how they are." 

That sent Crowley reeling again. Aziraphale, his cheerful, funny little angel had an active desire to die or to have a break or however he personally framed it, and he'd not picked up a trace of evidence for it in the six thousand years they've known each other. Suddenly, he felt as if he were the densest, stupidest, most selfish person on the planet and all realms beyond. "I'm sorry for not seeing it." He almost whispers it, the words cutting the inside of his mouth with the intimacy of it.

"Don't apologize, I've been able to manage it." Aziraphale lead him back into the back room and sat him down on the usual couch, except he sat down with him. "I don't mean to condescend, it was all very troublesome to begin with, and it does give me a hard time even now. But, well, if you can find any small detail in a day that made you feel happy, it's worth it, at least to me." He smiled, and Crowley noticed they were still holding hands. "I admit, I started with finding small good things within the month, since individual days were a pain."

Crowley had never exactly coped with the depression besides disappearing. Sleeping it away to avoid living, discorporating himself to feel the temporary thrill of dying. It wasn't good to cope with that, and he was aware it was bad when he started, but avoiding it felt so good that he couldn't stop it. He tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and looked anywhere but Aziraphale's eyes. "I don't know." He said, letting his emotions show just a bit. "I'm just...tired."

Aziraphale looked at him fondly. "I expect so, after stopping time and swapping bodies. And then I dragged you out to be social." He laughs again, and it doesn't sound at all false. "You do need your rest. But you need to live. Avoiding it makes it worse when you come back, my dear." 

It was good advice. It made sense. Crowley had no clue how to react to it. "What should I do instead? You know as well as me, it's not a picnic in my brain."

"It isn't. But I suppose it depends on you, how you go about with it. I expect for the both of us, it'll be much easier now that we've got someone to talk to about it." Aziraphale adjusted himself so he had an arm wrapped around Crowley, and Crowley's arm was in the crook of his shoulder. "For now, we can start with finding something recent that made you happy, or less upset. Until we get a system for you, because you deserve every kindness, especially from yourself."

Crowley was suspecting that Aziraphale read too much poetry, because he was managing to just _say _these things without combusting. "Eh..." He thought, for a moment, about the day and anything he'd gotten enjoyment out of. "I liked breathing fire at Gabriel." He said. "And when you told me about how you hammed it up in my body. That was funny."

Aziraphale kissed his forehead and smiled as if he'd just stopped time again. "Well, there's two things!" He exclaimed. "And from today, too. Now, it isn't as if this is a cure all for it, but it helps. We'll find what works for you." Aziraphale's hand drifted down and removed Crowley's sunglasses, and he suddenly felt a rush of contentment come over him, so much he could cry. He'd thought it was just him against himself for so long, and here Aziraphale was, framing it as the two of them walking down a difficult hiking path together. 

"You should've been a therapist." Crowley mumbled, smiling honestly. 

"Maybe so." Aziraphale hummed. "I need you to do something for me, love."

"Anything, always."

"Tell me about your troubles. It hurts me more to see you struggle alone than to know I can help, if only by listening and being a shoulder to cry on if need be."

Crowley thought about it for longer than he would anything else Aziraphale asked him to do. It would be a lot of getting used to, six thousand years of stamping down feelings don't just go away. He's certain he will always feel guilty about asking for help, but knowing what he does now, he might feel bad about not. In the end, it was a simple choice, because anything Aziraphale wanted, he would do in a heartbeat.

"Of course. Just ask, you'll have it."

Aziraphale smirked a little, because he knew that his demon would do anything for him, and the feelings were very mutual. He's certain that if Crowley asked for all the stars in the sky, he'd go up to space with a net to catch them all for him. "Thank you, my love." 

**Author's Note:**

> Nearly cried writing this, if you enjoyed my emotional troubles on Crowley leave a comment or a kudo


End file.
